


Prelude To A Kiss

by EclecticMuse



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/M, FitzSimmons Secret Santa 2019, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Musicians, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21979144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclecticMuse/pseuds/EclecticMuse
Summary: When the train runs late on the way home from work one evening, Jemma finds herself drawn to a busker playing tunes on one end of the platform. As time goes by and the busker continues to return to her station night after night, they strike up a friendship. Jemma hopes they could be something more--and with the help of a little bit of Christmas magic, maybe they actually can.
Relationships: Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons
Comments: 33
Kudos: 104





	Prelude To A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [recoveringrabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/gifts).



> This was written for recoveringrabbit for the 2019 FitzSimmons Secret Santa. She asked for "Fitz is a busker and Simmons accidentally gets off at his stop one time but keeps coming back because he is just so good at playing the sax (or instrument of your choice). And then they become friends and fall in love (maybe at Christmas time!)". When she mentioned the saxophone in her prompt, I knew my time had come! (I played that instrument for ten years.) My dear Rabbit, I hope this fic is what you are looking for and brings you all of the fluff you desire. Merry Christmas!
> 
> The title is taken from a Duke Ellington song.
> 
> Shoutouts go to my husband for helping me brainstorm some general plot and to my sister for lending me some archivist knowledge. I hope everyone enjoys!

The clock on her desk ticked over to 5:00 p.m., and Jemma Simmons breathed a sigh of relief. She’d had a very busy day at work, and she was more than ready to go home and relax. As an archival assistant in the Prints and Drawings Department at the British Museum, she spent her days digitizing the thousands of documents the Museum kept in storage, assisting researchers with accessing items they needed for their work, and aiding her boss on any of the ongoing projects the Department had running. One such project was coming to an end now, and as a result her time at work lately had been full of meetings, discussions, and deep research into which drawings and letters would be most appropriate to feature in an upcoming special exhibit. The accumulated burden of it all made her head swim a bit sometimes.

But now her day was done and she was looking forward to going home, putting on her pajamas, and having a glass of wine over dinner with her roommate Daisy. 

Once her office was locked up, Jemma made her way through the Museum’s back halls to the employee entrance. After going through security, she slipped her ID badge off and into her coat pocket as she walked through the public areas of the Museum to the exit. The Museum was almost empty now, visiting hours close to being over, and the halls echoed with her footsteps. Outside, she crossed her arms against the blustery October wind and headed down the street toward the nearest Tube station.

From there she only had to go one stop over to the Oxford Circus station, where she connected to a different line to make it home to her flat in Brixton. But when she reached Oxford Circus and made it to her platform, she was dismayed to see all of the signs for the Victoria Line showing heavy delays due to ‘mechanical difficulties’ with the trains.

Jemma sighed, fighting the urge to stamp her foot. A delay now, right at the start of the evening rush? It was the worst inconvenience, especially when she was so eager to get home.

Now that she knew she had a wait, the background sounds of the station’s bustle began to consciously filter into her ears. There was the crowd chatter, the rumbling of trains from the other lines passing through, and… a saxophone?

Jemma perked up in interest. It was definitely someone playing a saxophone, something jazzy and bright. Curious to find the source, she looked around, adjusting the strap of her bag across her chest as she did. Finally, she spotted him--a young man standing by the wall near the steps leading up to the street, merrily playing away on the shining silver saxophone in his hands.

She drifted a little closer, wanting to get a better look at him. A busker on saxophone was something new for her; usually she saw people playing guitar or street drums. Once she’d even came across a man singing while he played an accordion. But she’d never seen a saxophone before.

The man was obviously very talented. He played with gusto, his fingers moving quickly over the instrument’s keys, jumping between high and low notes with ease. He’d attracted a small crowd of onlookers with his skill, and occasionally someone would toss some coins or a banknote into the open horn case lying at his feet. As Jemma watched, the man zipped through a short run of notes before ending on an impressive staccato squeal. He held still for a brief second, then lowered the saxophone from his mouth and exhaled into a grin.

 _Oh_ , she thought as the small crowd gathered around him burst into a smattering of applause. _He’s cute_. He was young, maybe somewhere around her age or a bit younger, and his smile accented a boyishly handsome face beneath short, sandy blonde curls. He nodded gratefully in acknowledgment of the tips people were giving him, and bent down to pick up a water bottle that was sitting next to his case, keeping one hand on his saxophone. He took a sip to wet his throat, then capped the bottle and set it back down. 

“Right,” he said, taking hold of the saxophone again and tapping his fingers over the keys. “Now I’ve got something for you all called St. Thomas.”

 _And he’s Scottish_ , Jemma noted as he launched into his next song. This one sounded more like an old swing tune than jazz, fast and upbeat, something that people would want to dance to. She smiled in spite of herself as she watched him play, taking in the furrow of concentration to his brow, the way he paced back and forth as he played, the slight dips and tilts to his gait in time with the music. It was fun to watch him play. He seemed to be very comfortable performing; this was something he was used to. 

Daisy would probably be laughing at her right now if she were there, teasing Jemma for having her head turned by a busker. But she wasn’t bothered by the notion. Yes, he was cute, but she would stand here and be entertained by watching him play until her train came, and then she would go home and never see him again. She just regretted that she had no change on her with which she could tip him. 

The busker played through a few more songs--mostly fast and upbeat, though he did do one that was slower and more melodic--before her train finally pulled into the station. Jemma turned away from him to push through the crowd on the platform with a slight amount of reluctance, but mostly she was happy to finally be headed home. It had been a tiring day, and she was ready to relax.

-:- 

To Jemma’s surprise, the saxophone busker was back at Oxford Circus several times over the course of the next two weeks. He was always there in the same spot by the stairs when she came onto the Victoria Line platform, buzzing away on bright and jazzy tunes. Sometimes he had an audience, and sometimes people just walked past him as he played, in a hurry to make their trains and reach their destination. Jemma always came and stood as close to him as she could without being out of reach of her own train, simply for the enjoyment of watching him while she waited. Very quickly, she came to regard him as an expected part of her evening commute.

On the fourth day he was there, she remembered to bring change. She stepped forward to drop it into his open instrument case while his back was turned, hamming it up for a young girl who was captivated by his musicality. Watching the girl grin at his antics, Jemma couldn’t help but wonder more about him: what his name was, what his hobbies were, what he did for a living outside of busking. 

On the sixth day, Jemma arrived a little earlier than usual and pushed her hands into her coat pockets as she came to stand with the small group watching him play, smiling to herself. The song he was currently tearing through was a little more funky than she’d heard him play so far, but it was still a treat to watch his fingers fly expertly over the silver keys, rolling from note to note through a scattered melody. He made something that was obviously difficult technically look so easy.

When he finished the song, he sketched a short bow before bending to grab his water bottle for a quick sip. As he straightened back up, he scanned the crowd around him. Their eyes met--and he smiled at her.

It was so unexpected that Jemma immediately flushed pink, feeling like she’d been caught staring. Flustered and suddenly desperate to make an exit lest she make a fool of herself, she did the first thing that came to mind: she closed her fist around the change sitting in her coat pocket and all but flung it into his open case, then turned and darted for the other end of the platform. 

-:-

The next morning when she arrived at the Museum for work, Jemma was turning out her coat pockets in pure confusion.

“I can’t think of what happened to it!” she told Mark, the security guard on duty. “I obviously had it on me last night when I left.”

Mark chuckled lightly as he watched her unzip her bag to search through it. “I guess it’s a good thing then that you’ve been working here as long as you have, and I know who you are,” he said. “I can let you through today, but you should go get your badge replaced right away.”

“I will,” Jemma replied apologetically. “Again, I’m so sorry. I’m not in the habit of misplacing things.”

Mark just waved her through. “I know you’re not. Go on, have a good day.”

As soon as she was back in the non-public areas of the Museum, Jemma promptly went and had her ID badge replaced. She still couldn’t believe she’d managed to lose hers, but supposed there was a first time for everything. Maybe she needed to start carrying it in her bag in the evenings instead of her coat pocket. There might be less of a chance of it going missing that way.

Louise, the older woman in IT who was in charge of making and replacing ID badges, was an unpleasant woman who lectured Jemma on responsibility, the cost of replacement, and not losing her card. Jemma had to fight the urge to roll her eyes and beg the other woman to just hand over the new card so she could go to her desk and get started on her work for the day. She had a lot of documents to scan and even more to deliberate over for the exhibition, and her boss wouldn’t like it if she was made tardy by a fusspot.

At the end of the day, Jemma sighed and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, massaging it a little. There were only a few more days to go before the deadline on the Department’s current project. She could make it. She just had to stay focused on the end goal of a successful exhibit and the approval of her boss. She excelled at preparation; her work was meticulous and logical and above reproach. Everything would come together nicely in the end, she was sure of it.

But now she had wine and her roommate’s laughter and stories from work to look forward to. _And_ the busker at Oxford Circus. Hopefully he would be there tonight. He hadn’t failed to brighten her mood yet in the two weeks she’d seen him at the station, even if she’d been horribly embarrassed to be caught looking at him the night before.

To her delight, Jemma could hear the echo of his saxophone as she crossed over to the Victoria Line platform. He was playing something fast and complicated today, zipping through the notes like he was being chased. When he came into view through the crowd of travelers on the platform, she saw that he was pacing in time with the music the way he normally did, with little dips and flourishes to add a bit of showmanship to his performance. Checking the time boards, Jemma noted that she had a few minutes before her train arrived, so she went to go join the people gathered around him to watch him play.

He turned around in his pacing as he played to come toward her, and their eyes met again. Jemma sucked in a small breath, but expected him to keep on playing. Instead, something rather strange happened. His eyes widened, and even though she was no musician, Jemma could tell that he immediately altered what he was playing to quickly bring it to an end.

Everyone around her clapped politely, and he nodded his head in thanks. Then, to Jemma’s surprise, he turned to her and took a few steps in her direction. “Jemma Simmons?” he asked, just so she could hear.

She was speechless for a brief moment. How did he know her name? “Er--yes,” she finally said, blinking rapidly. “That’s me.”

He grimaced, like he knew he was being weird, and pulled something from his coat pocket to hand to her. “Here, I believe this is yours.”

It was her missing ID badge. Jemma gasped and reached out to take it. “I thought I’d lost this!” she said, looking up at him. “Where did you find it?”

“In my case,” he said. “I think you must have accidentally dropped it when you left a tip yesterday.”

“Oh.” Maybe if she didn’t mention how she’d awkwardly tossed her money at him and ran, he wouldn’t either. “And I’ve already gone and had it replaced.”

A small grin ticked up the corners of his mouth. “Isn’t that how it works, though? You always find the original once it’s been replaced?”

Jemma smiled back at him, feeling a bit uncharacteristically shy. Up close, she could see that his eyes were a brilliant clear blue that would be easy to get lost in. “Yes, I think you’re right,” she replied. “Still, it was very kind of you to hold onto it and return it to me, instead of just throwing it away. I feel like I should buy you tea as a thank-you. But—” She laughed nervously. “I know you’re very busy right now.”

“Actually--” He looked around, reaching up with the hand not holding his saxophone to rub at the back of his neck. “I could pack up now, yeah.” He turned back to her, that small smile still on his face. “If you want to.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Jemma said again. She hadn’t expected him to accept her offer. Glancing up at the time board, she decided it was fine if she stayed out for a bit and got home late. “Alright. Yes, I’d like to buy you some tea, then.”

His smile widened, and he nodded at her before turning away to go to his case. She watched as he scooped up all of his earnings and slipped it into a small velvet drawstring bag, then dropped it into a pocket on the outside of his case. Then he took his saxophone apart and carefully laid the mouthpiece, neck, and body in their slots. Zipping his case up, he stood and slung the strap over his shoulder, turning back to her. “Ready?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “I think so,” she said, looking around as his audience dispersed, realizing he was done for the night. “I haven’t been outside this station much, but I’m sure there’s a Caffe Nero or a Costa close by somewhere.” 

He grinned back. “There’s a Costa right around the corner. Come on.”

Jemma followed him up the steps to the street, which was crowded with pedestrians and vehicles, lit by the late afternoon sun. Glancing back to make sure she was still with him, he led the way down Oxford Street toward where she assumed the coffee shop was.

“So you know my name,” she said, skipping to catch up and keep pace with him. “What’s yours?”

He blinked as if it had just occurred to him that he hadn’t introduced himself. “Fitz,” he said, ducking his head sheepishly. “Leo Fitz, really, but I prefer to just go by Fitz.”

“Right, Fitz,” Jemma replied, trying it out. It suited him. “What were you playing when I arrived? It sounded very impressive.”

“Ah,” Fitz said, brightening. “It’s called Ornithology, by Charlie Parker. Ever heard of it?”

She shook her head. “Can’t say that I have. I’m afraid I’m more of a classical music girl than jazz.” She smiled apologetically. “But you sounded wonderful. I mean, you always do. You’re very good.”

Fitz shrugged lightly, looking like he was trying to downplay her praise. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s not the most difficult thing I’ve played, but I enjoy it a lot.” He looked over at her as they walked. “You like classical?” She nodded. “I, um, I was actually trained classically, but as you can imagine there isn’t a lot of classical literature out there for saxophone.”

Jemma thought about it for a moment. She didn’t know much about the ins and outs of classical music or saxophones specifically, but she’d always associated the instrument with jazz. “No, I guess not,” she said. They turned a corner onto a narrower street, and she saw the familiar red of a Costa awning and sign ahead. “Have you ever played classical while you’re out busking?”

Fitz shook his head. “No, not really,” he replied. “Jazz is much more popular and gets me more tips. I miss it, but, you know--you have to play to your crowd.”

Jemma smiled faintly. “Right.”

They’d reached the coffee shop. Fitz opened the door and gestured for her to go in ahead of him, and together they approached the counter to look up at the menu. Jemma asked if he wanted his tea to go, and Fitz surprised her again by asking if she minded if they sat in. She didn’t--his company had been very pleasant so far and he seemed like a nice enough man--so she ordered two English Breakfasts along with a few biscuits on impulse. They took their cups and saucers to a small table in the back of the shop to sit down.

“So, the British Museum,” Fitz said as he dunked one of the biscuits in his tea. “What do you do there?”

Jemma laughed a little self-consciously and looked down, tucking her hair behind one ear. Experience had told her that many people, men especially, were a little put off by her occupation; they assumed it meant she was very posh, or at the least snobbish and uptight. The truth was that her salary wasn’t much to speak of--that was why she had Daisy for a roommate--and she tried to be kind, treating everyone the same.

“I’m an archival assistant,” she told him. “Mostly, I work on getting the Museum’s archive of varied paper collections scanned into a database, and I also help people with their research. But occasionally I get to lend a hand with curating special exhibits.”

Fitz nodded. “Sounds very important,” he said around a mouthful of biscuit. “I bet it’s fascinating, being surrounded by all of that old stuff.”

Jemma laughed again, unsure if he was reacting the way most people did but hoping he wasn’t. “It is,” she said. “I’ve handled some interesting manuscripts. It’s tempting to stop what I’m doing sometimes and try to read them.”

“I bet,” Fitz replied sympathetically.

She took a sip of her tea. “So, ah, what do _you_ do?” she asked. “When you’re not busking, I mean.”

He frowned slightly. “I’m a repairman,” he said. “I fix laptops and mobiles and the like.” He fiddled with the remains of his biscuit, then somewhat hesitantly added, “But what I’d like to do is compose music.”

“Really?” Jemma leaned forward over the table in interest. There was no shame in repairing electronics--everyone had bills to pay--but composing wasn’t something she heard every day. “Do you write any now? What sort of styles do you prefer?”

Fitz, who had been staring at the table, looked up at her. “Um--yeah, and--anything that comes to my mind, really. I try not to limit myself.”

Jemma stole a biscuit off the plate between them. “Have you published anything?”

He made a sour sort of face as he rubbed a finger along the side of his nose. “Er, I’ve sold a few jingles,” he said, as if divulging a shameful secret. “They play on the radio, so I’m told. Have you heard the one that goes ‘if you’ve got some leaks or creaks’--”

“Yes!” Jemma cried, her face lighting up. “I don’t listen to the radio very often, but my roommate does when she’s cooking and I’ve heard that one. It really sticks in your head. If you’ve got some leaks or creaks, just call the man—”

Fitz buried his face in his hands. “Oh god, please, stop. It’s horrible.”

Jemma laughed. “It’s memorable! It does its job.”

“It’s _horrible_.” He shook his head, but he was still grinning.

Jemma took a bite of her biscuit, then set it down on the plate and leaned forward over the table again. “Right, so, if you could compose anything you wanted, what would it be?”

Fitz looked to the ceiling while he sipped his tea, giving the question some thought. “Something more lyrical. Something that could bridge the gap between classical and jazz. A bit like Gershwin, maybe. There’s some other composers I’ve heard that have done it beautifully.”

“That sounds lovely,” Jemma said, and she meant it. She liked Rhapsody in Blue. “Have you ever played something you’ve written while you’re busking?”

Fitz made another face. “Oh, no. Never. It’s… I don’t know.” He fiddled with his tea cup before looking up at her. “It’s a little personal, you know? Besides, I don’t think that what I write is the type of music that would play well for the Tube crowd.”

Jemma smiled softly. “I understand,” she said. 

From there, their conversation meandered on to other topics, such as where they had gone to school--Cambridge for Jemma, The Royal Conservatoire of Scotland for Fitz--and what had brought him to London. “Well, anyone who wants to make it in anything ends up here eventually, right?” he said. “Some people are just more successful than others.” They talked more about their jobs, and where they lived. Jemma told him about Daisy, who worked in cybersecurity, and Fitz rambled about the flat in Croydon that he shared with his mechanic friend Mack. It was a nice way to get to know someone; Jemma found Fitz to be rather engaging, even if he was a little shy on some topics, and he made her laugh. She was glad she’d offered to buy him tea and ease her curiosity on what he was like.

Before she knew it, time had flown by and it was nearing 7 p.m. “Oh!” Jemma cried softly, checking the time on her phone. “It’s getting late. I should probably text Daisy and let her know I’m still alive and that I’m on my way.” She gave Fitz an apologetic smile. “And I’m sure you have things you need to get to as well.”

He shrugged lightly. “It’s no problem. It’s been nice, just talking.” He smiled. “But you’re right, I should probably be getting home. It’s a long ride.”

Jemma frowned at him. “Is it really? I didn’t think Croydon was so far out.”

Fitz shrugged again. “It’s about forty-five minutes or so by train. There’s a fair few stops along the way.” He gave her a wry smile, as if to say _what can you do?_

“Well, let’s get you on your way, then,” she said, not wanting him to spend all night out on her account. She stood, picking up her empty tea cup and plate.

Once they had their dishes sorted and were out on the street walking back to Oxford Circus, Jemma found herself at a crossroads of sorts. She liked Fitz, and wanted to keep talking to him outside of the fleeting few minutes she saw him in the evening while he was busking. That meant she would have to take a chance now and put herself out there. Glancing aside at him as they walked, she licked her lips.

“I think maybe we should exchange numbers,” she said.

Fitz did a double-take. “Really?” he blurted. “I mean--alright, yeah, sure.”

Jemma felt a wave of relief wash over her, even though the tips of her ears were still pink. “I just thought--if I ever need my laptop repaired, I’ll want someone experienced and trustworthy.”

Fitz looked away from her, back over the crowd on the pavement in front of them, as a grin spread over his face. She rather liked the way it made his face look. “Right,” he said, “of course. Let’s get back to the station and I’ll put my number in your mobile.”

Once they were on the Victoria Line platform again, they exchanged numbers. Jemma smiled as she tapped at Fitz’s mobile, entering her number into his contact list, and smiled even wider when she handed him his phone back and he sent a test text, a singular, lone smiley face popping up in her notifications. Now they had a way to keep in touch, if he felt up to it.

They got on the next train in together; Fitz explained that he needed to go two stops down before getting off to hop on the overland rail that would take him home to Croydon. Jemma was happy to sit next to him for the few short minutes they had, feeling like she had a new friend.

“Thanks for the tea and biscuits,” Fitz said as the train pulled into the station at his stop. “I, um--it was fun.”

“My pleasure,” Jemma said warmly, smiling up at him as he stood and shouldered his saxophone case. “Thank _you_ for returning my ID badge.”

He waved her thanks off. “Ah, it was nothing.” The train came to a stop and the doors hissed open. “I’ll see you around, yeah?” 

There was a sense of hope lingering around his words and the way he looked at her. Jemma found that she felt the same way. “Of course,” she called after him as he headed for the doors. “Tomorrow.”

Fitz looked over his shoulder at her, giving her one last smile. Then the doors closed and he was gone.

Jemma smiled to herself. She couldn’t say exactly how, but she had the feeling that her life was about to change.

-:-

The next day at work was simply awful. Jemma was given an impossibly large stack of documents to digitize and sort in addition to all of the meetings she had to sit in on relating to the project the Department was bringing to a close. She tried to work as quickly and efficiently as possible, even taking her lunch at her desk, but by the time she was finally able to leave the Museum, it was late and night had fallen over the sky.

She grumbled as she hurried down the street toward the Tube station and as she rode the one stop over to Oxford Circus. As late as it was she doubted Fitz would still be there, and she’d so been looking forward to seeing him, what with their new fledgling friendship and all. She sighed. She would just have to hope he would be there on Monday.

But when she stepped onto the Victoria Line platform, she immediately saw Fitz in his spot on the far end, taking apart his saxophone and putting the pieces in its case. The platform was less crowded now that the evening rush was almost over, and Jemma was able to make her way to him fairly quickly. “Fitz!” she called out as she approached him.

He looked up, and a smile broke over his face. “Jemma! Hey,” he said, and zipped up his case before straightening up to face her. “I thought I’d missed you tonight, or maybe you had something else you had to do.”

Jemma felt a warm flush roll over her. “Oh, you were looking for me?”

Fitz bit his lip, and she could swear that his cheeks went pink, too. “Well, I mean--I’ve seen you every night--but not in a creepy way, I swear.” He winced and scratched at his eyebrow. “It’s just, you tend to recognize people if they come back.”

“Oh, you don’t have to explain yourself. I think it’s sweet.” Jemma was inordinately pleased that he’d thought to look for her. “I didn’t have any errands to run or anything like that--work was just beastly today.” She sighed. “That project that I told you about is coming to a close and my boss is going mad trying to make sure everything is in place. But it will be over soon, thankfully, and things should go back to normal.”

Fitz frowned. “I’m sorry you had such a rough day. D’you--” He checked his wristwatch. “Do you maybe want to go get something to eat? And talk it out?” Then he swallowed. “Or not, you could just go home if you wanted to, it’s been a long day--”

Jemma reached out to touch his arm, stopping him from rambling. “I would love to get dinner with you.” She didn’t say _go out_ , because that felt too much like a date, but it didn’t change how warm his invitation made her feel. 

“Right. Good,” he said, relaxing. “Um… how does curry sound?”

Jemma lit up. “Oh, curry sounds _wonderful_. It’s been a while since I’ve done curry. Excellent suggestion.”

That got a smile out of him, and she felt the warmth in her chest expand. “Alright,” Fitz said, adjusting the strap of his saxophone case on his shoulder. “Come on, I know somewhere not too far away from here.”

He took her to a little Indian restaurant tucked in between a Ladbrokes and a juice bar. Its humble appearance belied the quality of the food; the curry was some of the best Jemma had ever had, and the saag paneer was just as delicious. As they ate, Fitz listened patiently as Jemma unloaded about her work day--her entire week, if she was being honest--and offered quips here and there that actually made her smile. When she complained about her boss, he told her about his own supervisor at the repair shop, a grumpy middle-aged man named Reg, and how he got angry if Fitz didn’t meet an arbitrary quota of devices fixed in a day.

Then their conversation moved on to other, more pleasant things as they lingered over dessert--Fitz had insisted she try the date cinnamon pudding--and Jemma had the thought that even though they led very different lives and had different interests, Fitz was a kindred spirit.

They agreed on a lot of subjects, but he was also fun to debate. He was intelligent and had interesting opinions that she liked to tease out and poke at and get him to expound on. He took her own opinions seriously and never patronized her, the way many of the men in her field of work did. He seemed to be genuinely interested in hearing her talk about her job, asking her questions about the minutiae of it, and told her stories about his own work and all of the customers he dealt with daily. He even told her a little more about his compositions, even though he was very shy about discussing them in detail. 

He just meshed well with her. Jemma had never found it so easy to talk with someone else, not even Daisy. It just felt natural and right, being with Fitz, and before she knew it the hour had grown rather late again. She was pulled away from debating the finer points of the Museum’s artifact lending program by the buzz of her mobile. She picked it up to check the notification to see that it was a text from Daisy.

_Having a good time with your boyfriend?_

Her cheeks flushed. She’d texted Daisy when she first got to the restaurant to let her know that she was eating dinner with Fitz, and her roommate had texted back with an acknowledgment plus a slight bit of teasing that she was out with a man. Jemma had ignored it, but apparently Daisy had decided to remind her of the time a little more on the nose.

Fitz was watching her with a small smile on his face. “That your roommate?” he asked.

Jemma nodded, swiping the notification off her phone screen. “I hadn’t realized it was so late. We’ve been here forever.” She laughed a little awkwardly. “She was wondering if I’d died.”

Fitz did a double-take, then checked the time on his wristwatch. His eyebrows went up. “Oh. _Oh_ , we have. I’m so sorry for keeping you.”

Jemma shook her head, holding out a hand. “It’s fine, you haven’t kept me. I’m having fun, just sitting here talking to you.”

He smiled again, that almost-shy expression back on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jemma smiled back at him. “But I probably should be going. It _is_ a work night, after all.”

Fitz nodded in understanding. “Yeah, me too.” He hung his head. “Early morning at the repair shop tomorrow.”

Jemma laughed again, this time easier and more carefree, and reached out to poke his arm. “Oh no,” she said. “Hopefully Reg will go easy on you.”

They walked back to the Oxford Circus station and rode one stop down together just as they had done the night before, and when Fitz stood to leave he gave her a wide smile and a wave goodbye. Jemma felt the same way that she had before, too: that she definitely had a new friend, and that he was something special. He was going to change her life for the better.

-:- 

The texts came slowly at first.

Fitz would send her funny or amusing photos he saw on Twitter, or articles he thought she might find interesting. He had an account but almost never tweeted himself; he mostly used the platform as a way to keep up with current events and a few musicians he followed. Sometimes he would say things like “work is dull” and send her a photo of the repair shop devoid of customers. Occasionally, he would comment on the cold weather.

It was something. Jemma’s heart did a little flip every time her phone buzzed and she saw it was a text from Fitz. She looked forward to hearing from him no matter what he had to say, and she did her best to reply promptly, even if she was busy in the middle of her own work. 

Their texts quickly grew in number until they were shooting them back and forth at all times of the day, quite regularly, having real conversations just like they had over tea and curry. It was the only good way for them to communicate since Fitz lived a good distance away and was usually busy busking if he wasn’t at the repair shop, and Jemma had her own job. She still saw him for a few minutes most evenings as she passed through Oxford Circus on her way home, still performing bright jazzy tunes for all of the travelers passing through, and his eyes would smile at her as he played. Sometimes they made plans to meet up for tea or dinner after Jemma got off work instead, but for the most part they stuck to their routines. It was nice, though. She felt like Fitz was a solid friend now--possibly inching toward becoming a best friend, dare she think it.

Daisy liked to tease her about it. “So what’s your boyfriend up to?” she asked, as they sat on the couch watching evening telly and Jemma texted Fitz dry observations regarding _Strictly Come Dancing_.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she sighed, and looked down at her phone as a reply from Fitz popped up. _That outfit is horrible. It’s like someone vomited yellow and green ruffles all over him. Who was responsible for this??_

“Okay, sure,” Daisy replied, digging her hand into her bag of white cheddar popcorn. “He’s just that guy that you text all day, every day and who you see on the Tube every single night and go out for tea with. That guy. Definitely not your boyfriend.”

“It’s not _every_ night,” Jemma mumbled, feeling a little defensive. “Sometimes he has to work.”

Daisy nodded. “Mmmhmm. I still think you guys are dating, you just won’t admit it to each other. It’s kinda cute.”

Jemma looked down at her phone and Fitz’s texts again. “You know it’s possible for men and women to just be _friends_ , right?” she said, but she didn’t sound very convincing, even to her own ears. She could admit to herself that she wouldn’t mind if Fitz asked her out on a real date; she’d immediately been attracted to him, after all. And she did wish that they had the opportunity to see each other more outside of their momentary glimpses in the evenings and the occasional outing for tea. She just didn’t know if it was something Fitz would be interested in.

One evening in mid-December when she came through Oxford Circus, Fitz was waiting for her, nearly vibrating with excitement. “Jemma!” he cried when he caught sight of her, and wound his way through the crowd to reach her, his saxophone case slung over his shoulder. “You’ll never believe what happened. You know how you’ve been posting videos to Instagram for me?”

Jemma hummed, nodding. She had discovered on one of their tea outings that Fitz had an Instagram account which he ostensibly used for self-promotion, but hadn’t updated in months. So she had taken it upon herself to record short videos of him playing whenever she passed through the station, then posted them to her own account. She’d shown Fitz how to repost, and then he’d transferred all of her videos to his account. It would be good for business, she’d told him, and he’d confessed that it actually seemed to be working: he’d seen a slight increase in audience and tips since he’d started.

“Right! Yeah, so,” Fitz continued, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “this guy who runs a bar in Soho saw one of them and messaged me. He wants me to come play a set next Saturday night, paid.”

Jemma gasped. “ _Really_? Oh, Fitz, that’s wonderful!” She stopped just short of hugging him, grasping his arms instead and lightly shaking them. “What an amazing opportunity for you!”

Fitz was grinning, his cheeks flushed pink. “Yeah, yeah. I checked it all out and he’s legit. And he’s got some guys who can do drums and piano for me.” He blew out a shaky breath. “This is really going to happen.”

The urge to hug him and congratulate him, even reassure him, was still very strong. “Are you nervous?” Jemma asked.

He barked out a short laugh. “Bloody hell yes, I’m nervous, right now at least. I’ll probably feel better on the day once I’ve got my horn out.”

She beamed at him. “Well, I think this calls for some tea to soothe your nerves,” she said, taking his elbow and steering him towards the stairs that led up to the street. “And you can tell me more about it.” She paused as a thought occurred to her. “Can I come watch you play? If you don’t mind, if it won’t make you nervous.”

“No, no, not at all,” Fitz replied, smiling at her. “I don’t mind if you come. I want you to, actually. It’s sort of all thanks to you that I got this gig in the first place.”

-:-

Daisy came with her to the jazz club the following Saturday, eager to see the man Jemma had been spending so much time texting. Fitz was already setting up on the little stage at the back of the room when they arrived, and Daisy gripped Jemma’s arm as they made their way to the bar.

“He’s cute!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up. “Nerdy cute. Not my style, but I can see why you like him.”

“I don’t _like_ him,” Jemma protested, but her eyes were caught on Fitz anyway as he adjusted the mic clipped to the bell of his saxophone while speaking to the men sitting at the piano and trap set behind him. She was used to seeing him in jeans and trainers, bundled up in a jumper and his coat while he played at Oxford Circus. But he was properly dressed up now: smart black trousers and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, accented with a skinny tie. He looked really good.

She was going to be hard-pressed not to stare at him all night.

Fitz briefly introduced himself before launching into his first number, and Jemma felt a rush of pride for him as she watched him play. It looked as though he’d accurately predicted his level of nervousness, or a lack of it, as it were--he played with ease, his bluesy melody comfortably twisting in and out of the piano accompaniment and the beat of the drums. She wondered if he’d ever considered a career as a professional musician. She knew he preferred composition, but he was certainly a talented enough performer to make a go of it. Just getting tonight’s gig was ample evidence of that.

“He’s really good,” Daisy said, appearing at her elbow with drinks for the two of them. “Like, _really_ good.” Jemma looked over at her as she accepted her drink, and Daisy waggled her eyebrows. “Imagine what he can do with those fingers of his.”

Jemma made a face. “Oh, _Daisy_ \--”

“No, really!” Daisy laughed. “Isn’t that a thing, saxophone players being sexy? Or good with their hands?” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe his tongue, too.”

Jemma hid her face behind a sip of her drink. Those were definitely things she didn’t need to be thinking about Fitz while she was in the same room as him, even if he was otherwise occupied. “I’m not sure skill at a musical instrument necessarily translates to the manual dexterity needed for what you’re suggesting,” she mumbled, just loud enough to be heard over the music and the din of the bar crowd’s chatter. 

“You could find out,” Daisy suggested, giving her a loaded look. 

Jemma rolled her eyes. Despite her roommate’s assertions and her own little crush, she still wasn’t convinced that Fitz had any actionable feelings for her. They were good friends and got along well, but he had never done or said anything that really told her he was interested in more. Sure, he blushed from time to time around her, but that was just who Fitz was--kind and sweet and a little bit shy.

Daisy and Jemma nursed through a few drinks as the night went on, talking as they watched Fitz play. Daisy continued to tease Jemma about him when they weren’t making small talk with the various men who stopped by their table to chat them up, and Jemma resigned herself to taking it in good humor. Daisy only did it because she cared. Besides, if she got it out of her system now, maybe she would tease Jemma less when Fitz was actually in front of them. 

After closing out one song deep into his set, Fitz took a swig from his water bottle and stepped up to the mic. “Alright, I’ve got one more for you guys,” he said, his eyes scanning the crowd. “This is a little piece I wrote myself, dedicated to someone who’s been a very big help and inspiration to me lately. She knows who she is. Anyway, hope you like it.”

Next to her, Daisy gasped. “No way!” she hissed, tapping rapidly at Jemma’s arm. “Did you hear that?! He has to mean you. He wrote you a song!”

But Jemma could only stare in shocked wonder as the piano flowed through an intro and Fitz brought the mouthpiece of his saxophone to his lips, waiting for his entrance. When he came in, the notes were light and sweet, more refined than anything else he’d played so far that night, but with just enough of a jazzy touch to keep it appropriate for the venue. Jemma’s heart was pounding in her chest.

 _It sounds classical_ , she thought. _He remembered I like it. And he said he wanted to write something a little bit classical, a little bit jazz._ She couldn’t take her eyes off of him as he played through the song, his movements graceful as he swayed with the rhythm. _He told me he was too nervous to perform something of his own._ But apparently he’d found some courage… because of her.

She might have to revise her assessment on whether or not he had feelings for her.

The crowd broke out into scattered applause when Fitz finished his set. Jemma did too, still feeling rather stunned and unsure how to proceed.

“Okay, so he is _totally_ your boyfriend now,” Daisy said, clapping as well. “And he was awesome. I’m going to go get us a round of drinks to celebrate. What does he like?”

“Um--scotch, I think,” Jemma replied, just a bit distracted.

Daisy nodded. “Right, I’ll get on that. Go get your man.”

She headed for the bar and Jemma stood, smoothing a hand down the front of her dress. She could do this. There was nothing nerve-wracking at all about congratulating a good friend on a job well done after he’d just dedicated a song written especially for you.

She made her way to the stage, where a few of the club patrons had stopped to talk to Fitz as he got his saxophone stored away in its case. Jemma came to a stop just behind them; she caught Fitz’s eye and he gave her a brief smile to acknowledge that he knew she was there before he focused his attention back on the people in front of him. She patiently waited her turn, looking out across the club and picking at invisible lint on her dress, until the last of them shook Fitz’s hand and went on their way. Then he turned to her, letting out a heavy sigh and smiling.

“You were wonderful,” Jemma said, taking a few steps to bridge the space between them. “Really. I think that’s the best I’ve heard you yet.” 

Fitz’s smile widened. “Thanks,” he said, and clenched his hands into fists. “I’m still on the adrenaline high. Don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight.”

Jemma laughed. “Oh, you’ll manage. Maybe you can play Call of Duty with Mack until you wear yourself out.” He’d mentioned to her once before that playing the video game with his roommate was a favored way to unwind.

Fitz laughed too. “Yeah… yeah, that might do it.”

Folding her hands together in front of her, Jemma took a deep breath. “And… I liked your song, too. The one you wrote.”

She looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, and found that Fitz had paused, the laughter fading slowly from his face. Something like cautious hope remained. It made her stomach do a little flip.

“Yeah?” he asked, fingers fidgeting with the strap of his saxophone case.

Jemma nodded, giving him a small smile. “Yeah. It was lovely.” Aware of him watching her intently. she summoned up her courage. “Fitz, I wanted to ask if maybe--”

“Hey!” Daisy chose that exact moment to appear at Jemma’s elbow, precariously holding three drinks in her hands and smiling widely. “So you’re this Fitz I’ve been hearing all about! I’m Daisy, Jemma’s roommate.”

Fitz blinked, looking slightly thrown, then reached out to take the glass of scotch that Daisy was holding out. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said, throwing Jemma a brief, apologetic glance. “Nice to meet you.”

Jemma accepted her gin and tonic, feeling like all of her words were stuck in her throat as Daisy dove straight into a glowing review of Fitz’s performance. She’d been _so_ close to asking if he had feelings for her--if maybe there could be something more between them. The opening had been right there. Now it was gone.

Blast Daisy and her horrible timing.

-:-

_What are your plans for Christmas?_

It had been a week since Fitz’s jazz club gig, and neither of them had brought up the song he’d written for her. Jemma desperately wanted to, so she could try and broach the subject of his feelings-- _their_ feelings?--again, but it felt like too important a topic for texting, and she hadn’t had any time to see him outside of quick smiles exchanged at the Tube station. She wanted to spend actual time with him in person. Hence, her fishing for his Christmas plans. 

Her phone buzzed. _Nothing much. Might get some takeaway and call my mum._

Jemma stared at her phone for a moment, aghast, before hurriedly texting back. _Nothing at all??_

Fitz was quick in replying. _Reg won’t give me enough time off to go to Glasgow, and all of Mack’s family is in America. Usually we just order in a big dinner and watch old movies. Or play Call of Duty._

This wouldn’t stand. He needed to have a proper Christmas. Also, it provided the perfect opportunity for her to see him again, if he accepted. _You can come round to mine if you like. We’re having a few friends over for Christmas dinner and I’d love to see you. Mack can come too._

It was a good minute or two before Fitz texted back. _Are you sure? It’s no trouble?_

Jemma smiled as her fingers tapped over the phone screen. _I’m very sure. Adding two more isn’t a hardship._

She watched with a smile as another reply popped up. _Alright. Count us in._

-:-

Jemma and Daisy’s small lounge-slash-kitchen was already full of laughter and chatter Christmas evening when their buzzer rang. Jemma looked up from where she was leaning against the kitchen counter talking to her friend Bobbi and smiled. “Oh, that will be Fitz and Mack,” she said, and hurried out into the hall to welcome them in.

Standing in the interior corridor of her building bundled up in their winter coats and scarves were Fitz and a giant of a man Jemma assumed could only be Mack. “Hello, hello!” she exclaimed cheerfully, standing back and beckoning them inside. “You made it! Did you find us alright from the train station?”

Fitz nodded as he pulled his scarf off and passed it over to Jemma’s waiting hands. “Yeah, it was fine. We hopped on the bus even though it was a really short ride, we wanted to stay out of the cold as much possible.”

Jemma laughed. “I can’t blame you one bit, it’s freezing.” She turned to Mack. “And you must be Mack. I’m Jemma, it’s so nice to meet you.”

He took her proffered hand in his much larger one and shook it, smiling broadly. “It’s good to meet you, too. Fitz here talks about you all the time.”

Fitz’s face scrunched up. “No--actually--no, I don’t,” he mumbled, scratching at his eyebrow. He turned toward the door to the lounge. “Is this where everyone is?”

Jemma took their coats and scarves to throw across her bed, then went and rejoined them in the lounge to make introductions. Bobbi was her roommate from Cambridge who worked at a biotech startup in the city, and was there with her on-again, off-again boyfriend Hunter who did contract work for the British government. They had all done Christmas dinner together for a few years now, and Bobbi and Hunter both had been very intrigued by the addition of two more to their party.

“So, Jemma, this is your musician friend, yeah?” Hunter asked, handing out beers to both Fitz and Mack. He looked at Fitz. “I gotta say, I was expecting something a little different.”

“Different how?” Fitz asked warily.

Hunter shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe taller? A little more hipster?”

Bobbi smacked his arm while Mack hid a smile behind his beer bottle, but Fitz only said, “You’re barely taller than I am.”

Hunter raised his beer in an amiable salute. “Touché.”

Somehow the men got deep into the subject of video games--probably, Fitz had mentioned his initial plans to spend Christmas playing Call of Duty, which led Hunter to ask if they’d ever played Battlefield--which gave Jemma ample time to escape with Daisy and Bobbi to the sofa. “You’re right, he _is_ cute,” Bobbi said quietly, so the men couldn’t overhear. “And the way he was looking at you when you were talking was adorable. You need to get on that.”

Jemma grimaced, glancing down at the beer bottle she held in her hands. Had Fitz really been looking at her a certain way? “There just hasn’t been a good time,” she muttered anxiously. “And I don’t know if he actually feels anything for me!”

Bobbi gave her a bracing look. “Jemma, the man wrote and performed a _song_ for you. That’s not normal friendship behavior.”

“I know,” Jemma said, still looking down. “I know. I just… I’m afraid of making things messy and complicated. It’s such a risk.”

“I get it,” Daisy said softly, laying a reassuring hand on her knee. “But I think you should go for it. Try getting him alone after dinner, say you’re taking him on a tour of the apartment or whatever and get him in your room or out on the patio. We’ll keep the boys busy in here.”

That got a small smile out of Jemma. “Thanks, Daisy,” she said, and smiled at Bobbi too. “I’ll try. Because I think I might burst if I don’t say anything tonight.”

Bobbi grinned and patted her other knee. “That’s my girl.”

“Hey,” Hunter called out from across the room, drawing their attention. “What are you lot talking about all secretive over there?”

“Girl issues,” Bobbi shot back easily. “Stuff you don’t care about.”

Hunter made a face. “Ah, right then,” he said. “Carry on.” Mack smothered another grin, while Fitz looked faintly concerned. Bobbi rolled her eyes and turned back to Daisy and Jemma.

Dinner went well. Everyone had fun pulling the Christmas crackers Jemma made, putting on paper crowns and squirreling away sweets for later eating, and Fitz and Mack were very complimentary of the modest menu Jemma and Daisy had put together. Once dessert was finished and all the dishes were cleared away Daisy turned on the telly, telling Mack he could still get his movies in. Bobbi caught Jemma’s eye and made a surreptitious shooing motion in Fitz’s direction, who was cracking open another beer by the fridge. Realizing that this was her chance to get him alone the way that Bobbi and Daisy had recommended, Jemma took a deep breath.

“So, I haven’t given you the grand tour of the flat yet,” she said, sidling up to Fitz and hoping she didn’t sound too awkward.

Fortunately, he just looked up from setting the bottle opener down on the counter and smiled at her. “Yeah?” he asked, eyes sparkling with good humor. “Well, can’t miss out on that. Lead the way.”

Smiling back, Jemma gestured for him to go ahead of her out into the hallway. As she followed him, Daisy gave her a thumbs-up and a bright grin over the back of the sofa. Jemma just scrunched her nose. All she could do was hope for the best.

“Well, this is our entrance hall, obviously,” she said after she joined Fitz. “That’s Daisy’s room there down the stairs--” She pointed to the bedroom at the end of the long hall opposite the lounge door, down a short flight of stairs. “And this is her bathroom.” She indicated the open door leading to the full bath that sat adjacent to the lounge door.

Fitz’s eyebrows went up. “You’ve got your own bathrooms?” he asked, taking a sip of his beer.

Jemma nodded. “Yes. We were very lucky to find a flat with two full baths. Obviously we would have managed with just one, but it’s nice this way--we aren’t tripping all over each other in the morning.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Fitz said, nodding too. “I bet it is nice.”

“It really is,” Jemma replied, then led him through the door on the other side of the bathroom, which was her bedroom. “And mine’s an ensuite, which is even nicer.”

Fitz laughed. “I’m officially jealous. No stumbling blind down the hall in the middle of the night for the loo.”

“Not for me,” Jemma said, laughing too. “But wait, it gets even better. Look at this.” She motioned for him to follow her across the room, past her bed to the far wall where there was a small, sliding glass door next to a window. “I’ve got patio privileges, too.”

Fitz laughed again. “How did you wind up with the better bedroom?” he asked.

Jemma just smiled. “Daisy drew the short straw,” she said simply. Then she turned to open the sliding door, biting her lip as the cold, wintry air outside hit her in the face. “I strung up some fairy lights to give it a bit of a festive mood,” she added, gesturing to the twinkling white lights strung along the wrought iron rail of the patio. “No one can see it from the street, of course, but I can see it from in here.”

“That’s very true,” Fitz noted, going past her to step out onto the patio. “And it is very festive.”

Jemma looked at him, his free hand shoved into his jeans pocket and his shoulders hunched as he looked around the tiny patio and out down to the building’s back garden, and took a deep breath. Following him outside, she closed the door nearly all the way before taking a step toward him.

“Thank you for coming over tonight,” she said, attempting to broach an opening.

Fitz turned back to her, flashing her a quick smile. “Oh--I should thank _you_ for inviting me,” he replied, little clouds of white puffing up from his mouth as he laughed. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be sitting at home in my pajamas playing video games. It was nice to get out and have a home-cooked meal.”

Jemma smiled back at him, feeling all of the words she wanted to say crowding up inside her chest. “And, um…” She tucked her hair behind one ear and crossed her arms tightly over her chest to stay warm. “Thank you, again, for writing that song for me.” She paused. “Actually, I don’t think I thanked you, before. But thank you anyway.”

Fitz’s expression had turned shy at the mention of his composition, and he simply nodded, ducking his head with a small smile. Watching him carefully, Jemma asked, “Did you really write it for me?”

He looked up at her and swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah,” he replied. “I did.”

Feeling her mouth go dry even though she knew that was the answer, Jemma continued, “Why? When you could write about anything… why me?”

Fitz shrugged lightly. “You inspire me,” he said, as though it was the obvious answer. “You’re kind and smart and funny, and you make me want to be a better person. The music just flows easier in my head when I’m with you.”

He shrugged again, his expression almost sad and bittersweet, like he expected her to tease him for his confession, but that was the farthest thing from the truth. Jemma was speechless she was so touched, and it took her a minute to organize her thoughts with this new information and parse what she wanted to say. It looked like her wishes were coming true--Fitz really _did_ feel something for her--but she still had to tread carefully.

“I can’t imagine my life without you in it,” she said eventually, quietly. “Not anymore. I know we don’t get to spend much real time together, but I love your texts and I look forward to them every day, and--seeing you in the evening at the Tube station, even if it’s just for a minute. It’s tradition, now. For me, at least.”

A light had come into Fitz’s eyes as he watched her speak, and when she was done, he took a step toward her. “Maybe we can change that,” he said. “Not really seeing each other, I mean. Maybe we can make an effort.”

Jemma’s heart was in her throat. “Oh?”

He nodded, and stretched past her to set his beer down on her tiny patio table. Then he reached out to tug gently at her arms, pulling them away from her body so he could take her hands in his and step into her space.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, watching their hands, “so I have no idea what I’m doing. But--” He looked up at her, and hope was written clearly across his face. “I really like you, Jemma. A lot. And I was just--I was wondering if there was a chance that could go anywhere.”

A hot shock of what felt like overjoyed delight rushed through her, and Jemma couldn’t stop a bright smile from breaking over her face. She was nodding before she was even conscious of reacting and, squeezing his hands tightly, she said, “Yes. Yes, there is. Very much.”

An answering smile lit up Fitz’s face as well, and the way it transformed him with joy made Jemma’s heart feel fit to burst. “Really?” he asked. “Oh. _Wow_ \--okay--so I guess--” Then his gaze dropped to her mouth, and she wasn’t sure which one of them moved first, but they both leaned in together to meet in the middle for an extremely sweet, gentle kiss.

It was perfect. Fitz dropped her hands to wrap his arms around her and pull her close, and Jemma sank into his warmth, eager to lose herself in everything she’d been wanting for the past several weeks. When they finally broke the kiss they stayed close, both just wanting to drink the other in and extend the moment. Then Jemma noticed that it had started to snow.

“Look,” she said softly, tilting her face up. “It’s snowing.”

Tiny white snowflakes were drifting lazily down from the night sky, sticking to Fitz’s hair and eyelashes as he, too, looked up. He smiled before looking back at her. “That’s just perfect, isn’t it?” he asked, adjusting his arms around her. “A kiss in the snow.”

Jemma hummed happily, nodding, then shivered slightly. “We should probably go back in,” she said, burrowing a little deeper into his chest. “It’s literally freezing, and everyone’s probably wondering where we are.” She paused. “Or they know exactly what we’re doing and they’ll tease us when we get back.”

Fitz laughed and pulled her in a little closer. “Do we have to go in right this second? I’d like another moment with my girlfriend, just to enjoy this. Um--if that’s alright with you.”  
  
It was Jemma’s turn to laugh. “I would love to spend another moment kissing my boyfriend before our friends tease us mercilessly.”

Fitz’s face relaxed into a happy smile, and he pulled her forward for another kiss. Jemma sighed in contentment as she curled her fingers into the wool of his jumper and kissed him just as sweetly back. With the snow and the fairy lights and his arms around her, it really was a perfect moment--the best Christmas gift she could have possibly received. 


End file.
